


Just Say The Word, We'll Take On The World.

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Best Boyfriend, Boys In Love, Brooklyn boys in love, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, I love Bucky Barnes, Issues, M/M, PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Songfic, Steve Helps Bucky, Steve Rogers is a good boyfriend, Stucky - Freeform, Tags Are Hard, Take On The World by You Me at Six, bucky barnes deserves the world, bucky loves steve, steve loves bucky, stevebucky - Freeform, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: "And just say the word, we'll take on the world.And just say you're hurt, we'll face the worst.Nobody knows you, the way that I know you,Look in my eyes, I will never desert you.And just say the word, we'll take on the world."ORBucky Barnes is suffering from PTSD, after all he's been through— and honestly, who wouldn't? Something triggers him and he suffers a severe panic attack, and Steve sits with him, and helps him through it.





	Just Say The Word, We'll Take On The World.

It’s cold and it’s dark— and that’s all Bucky can feel. His feet are cold, and his hands are too, and so is his nose. But the cold linoleum floor _burns_ his skin where he’s sitting on it. His head hurts, and the tears on his face are growing colder by the minute. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t, he can’t do anything except _feel_.

And he feels _so much_. He can feel the way a knife feels when it slashes across a human throat, he can feel the warmth of fresh blood gurgling from his victims’ wounds on his skin, he can almost taste the iron in the air. It’s all psychosomatic— he’s not really killing anyone, he’s not in cold parts of Serbia, he’s at home. He’s at the New York City apartment that he shares with Steve that he calls his home. He’s safe and he’s sound, and no one’s coming to get him, no one’s coming to put him in cryo, and no one’s coming to wipe his mind, Steve wouldn’t let them.

 _Steve_ , Bucky’s breathe hitches as the name flashes across his brain, _his_ Steve— who is sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bathroom door, safe and warm in his bed— in _their_ bed. Bucky gasps, remembers that he’s hurt Steve. Remembers how it felt when metal connected with human flesh, remembers metal fingers pulling the trigger, shooting clean through Steve’s gut.

Agony rips through him as if he’s been shot and he gasps again, a sob escaping him as he lets his head fall back and collide harshly with the cold marble wall of the bathroom. Another sub rips through his gut as he brings his hands up to his face— and sees them covered in blood. He screws his eyes shut, bites down on his lip, and doesn’t let out the scream that’s desperate to rip out of his throat— because Steve’s sleeping in the room, and he of all people, doesn’t need to see Bucky at his worst, because he believes Bucky’s getting better with the PTSD— and honestly, Bucky believed that too, because he really was getting better with regular therapy sessions.

Everything was alright until just ten minutes ago; he was asleep in his bed, Steve’s arm across his abdomen, when he had to leave the bed to use the toilet. He had peed, and flushed the toilet. Then he’d gone to the sink and in trying to wash his hands quickly—just so he could get back into the warm bed—had accidentally knocked over one of Steve’s perfume bottles. He’d cursed at himself and turned around quickly to open the door and check on Steve, who was still blissfully asleep. It was all fine, until he’d bent to pick up the bottle and had cut himself deeply on one of the sharp and thick glass edges.

Blood was one of his biggest triggers, and seeing the blood flow freely from his fingers, warming his skin; it had given him a sudden flash of memories— the same memories they’d been using hypnotherapy to remove. It had all come back to him in a tidal wave and he had sunk to the very bottom as easily and quickly as a stone.

Now he was sat with his back to the wall, blood trickling down his arm, the heels of his palms digging in to his eyes. He had to stop; stop crying, stop panicking, stop _remembering_. He recalled the breathing exercises his doctors had recommended in case of panic attacks or a memory overload, which in any case, was his current situation. Steve had practiced his breathing exercises with him; _breathe in, hold for five seconds, breathe out, repeat_. He tried that, but he couldn’t hold it, it kept coming out in sobs.

And then suddenly there were warm hands slowly going up his bare legs. “Hey…” Steve’s sleep-ridden voice whispered to him, “It’s okay… I’m here, I’m here, baby.” Then Steve’s hand were wrapping around his shoulder, hauling him up to his feet. Bucky didn’t open his eyes, couldn’t bear to look at Steve— he didn’t know what he’d find in those gorgeous baby blues that he loved so much; pity, disgust, or disappointment? Either option terrified him, so he tucked his head into the crook of Steve’s neck, and allowed himself to be blindly let out of the bathroom.

Steve took him back to their bed and sat him down, put pillows between the headboard and his back, before gently nudging him backwards to lean against it. Bucky still had his eyes closed, even when Steve left him on the bed to walk around the room, and returned shortly. He took Bucky’s hand between his own, and a sharp sting in his finger told Bucky his cut was being cleaned and bandaged. Then Steve was wiping down his arm and chest with a wet cloth, it wasn’t big enough to be a wet wipe.

It was silent for a minute more as Steve got up off the bed again and went out of the room. Bucky opened his eyes and found a band-aid wrapped around his finger. The soft ticking of the balls in the Newton’s Cradle that Steve kept on the bedside table, drew his attention, and he stared at them calmly. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. He was still staring at the Cradle by the time Steve returned to the bedroom, and he didn’t take his eyes off the shiny metal balls even when Steve sat down in front of him.

A soft, tentative hand reached forward and tapped his barefoot. “Buck?” Bucky jerked a little, but didn’t respond otherwise. He couldn’t trust his own voice. Steve’s hand travelled up to his bare arm and gave it a warm squeeze. “Here, Buck, drink some water.” His words were followed by a glass of water being gently pushed against his fingers, and he took it, gratefully chugging it all down in one go. Steve took the glass from him afterwards and placed it on the table, next to the Cradle. They sat in silence for a minute, before Steve’s fingers gently began going up and down Bucky’s arm.

“Look at me, Buck, please look at me.”

Slowly, Bucky shook his head and ducked his head downward instead, and brought his arms a little upwards, so they crossed above his knees, and his forehead rested against them. His too-long hair fell around his face, hiding him from Steve. “No.”

“Why not, Buck?” Steve asked. His voice was soft gentle and soft, and more tears made their way to Bucky’s eyes. “Why won’t you look at me, Buck?”

“I can’t—” Bucky replied, fighting the urge to clamp down. His doctors said that talking his way through one of these attacks was the best way to cope with them, so he continued talking, forcing the words out. “I can’t see what you see.”

“Bucky, what do you think I see?”

“You see a weak, pathetic failure in me. And you pity that failure, and I can’t bear to see that look in your eye, not for myself, Steve.”

Steve’s fingers stilled on Bucky’s arms, and he inhaled sharply. Then, slowly, they relax again and he leaned forward until his forehead was resting sideways on the back of Bucky’s head. “You’re so wrong, Buck. I’ll tell you what I really see in you… I see the love of my life, who is a strong man. Who has been broken down too many times, and each time he stood back up. I see someone who the whole world kicked when he was down, but he stood right back up and continued fighting. I see a fighter, Buck, someone who battles against his demons every single day. Do you know how powerful that makes you? So strong, Buck, so fuckin’ strong.” He sniffed and Bucky realized he was crying, and he wanted to wipe away those tears so badly, but he felt paralyzed by his own fear. Steve shifted so his forehead was resting against Bucky’s arms instead, “You’re not weak; you’re stronger than most people in the world. You’re not pathetic; you’re a brave, honest, _good_ man who has never stood by for injustice. You’re not a failure, Buck; you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, you’re my reason to get up each morning with a smile on my face. How can someone who brings another so much joy, be a failure?”

Bucky’s shoulders shook and the sobs wrecked through him, his head lifted and found Steve’s shoulders instead, and his knees fell open. Steve shifted immediately, so his arm went around Bucky, and he hugged him closer to his chest. By the time Steve had stopped shifting, Bucky was half in his lap, face buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around it as well. Steve’s arms were around Bucky’s waist and his cheek was resting on top of Bucky’s head.

“Steve, there was blood— and I felt the knife, and the blood— and I remembered the screams, and the— oh God, Steve, I never wanted to, it wasn’t— I didn’t—” Bucky was sobbing louder than he ever had, and Steve was trying his best to soothe him, and just for that alone, Bucky owed him a lifetime.

“It wasn’t you, Buck, it wasn’t you. You’d never hurt all those people, that wasn’t you. You’re a good man, you’re the man who helped old ladies cross the streets, you’re the man who fought off too-eager dates off dames who didn’t want nothing to do with those bastards, you’re the man who walked children back to their homes when it was dark, you’re the man who stood up for that single mother when everybody else was shaming her, and you’re the man who proudly announced his support for the queer man when everybody else was condemning him to hell. You’re James Barnes, and you’re a good man. You are _not_ the Winter Soldier, Bucky— he’s a ghost of your past, and that’s where we’ll leave him. And we’ll do it together.” Steve told him, his voice soft as a feather and with the utmost sincerity in his words.

His hands were now smoothing down Bucky’s hair and travelling down his back before going back up into his hair and repeating their motions, and Bucky felt himself calming down, not because of Steve’s words, but because of his voice. Because Steve’s voice reminded him of the present, reminded him of who he was, and where he was. Hearing Steve’s voice meant he wasn’t in any remote HYDRA facility, surrounded by agents and doctors, who only existed to bring him pain and suffering. It meant that Bucky was with Steve, and if he was with Steve, then nothing could hurt him, Steve wouldn’t allow it. Steve would stand in front of the Devil himself, for Bucky, and tell the Devil to stand down. Steve would battle entire armies for Bucky, and still come out victorious because Bucky was waiting at home, and knowing that, Bucky felt infinitely calmer.

“Please keep talking, Steve, I need to hear your voice, it’s— I just— _please_.”

“Okay, okay… anything for you, Buck, anything. You do know that, right? That I’d do anything for you? Honest to God, I’d move heaven for you, and if that didn’t work, then I’d raise hell. I’d set fire to the whole world if it meant keeping you warm, Buck, and I’d rain down ice if you wanted cold. You’re my beginning and you’re my end, Bucky, and there’s nothing in this world that would keep me from you. Just say the word, Buck, and we’ll take on the whole world, together. And that’s all I need, Bucky, your hand in mine, and everything will be fine. Right, Buck?”

Bucky knew what Steve was doing; talking, just like Bucky had asked, and coaxing Bucky to speak, so he helped along. “Yeah, that’s right. You and me, against everything, we can do it.”

“Yeah we can, Buck, yeah we can.” Steve nodded, and he sounded close to tears again. He continued nonetheless, “And if you’re hurting, Bucky, all you gotta do is say it. ‘Cause if you say you’re hurt, and we’ll face the worst. God, you have no idea how much I wish it was me, and not you.”

“No! Not you, Steve, not you. It can never be you! No, I won’t let it!” Bucky exclaimed, lifting his head off Steve’s shoulder and looking at Steve with a wild expression. His hands lifted to cup Steve’s face and he shook his head, “Not you, Steve… you don’t deserve that.”

“Well, you don’t either, Buck, you deserve none of that horrible pain. So if I can share it with you, I’ll do it a hundred times, and you’re going to let me, because I’m not asking for your permission.” Steve replied, his voice still a gentle whisper, a stark comparison to Bucky’s frantic one. Steve leaned forward and kissed his forehead, “You and me together, forever… facing and fighting off all your demons, sharing your pain. Because I’m not gonna let you drown in the agony by yourself.”

For a minute, Bucky was silent. He was counting all his blessings, trying to move past the pain, and on top of all the blessings, he found Steve’s name. So he nodded, and pressed his lips to Steve’s, “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you more, and you never have to thank me for anything, Buck. ‘Cause I’m with you to the end of the line, remember? I mean it every single time I say it.” Steve told him after Bucky had pulled away.

Bucky nods again, and doesn’t say another word. So Steve gently pulls him down with him, until they’re laid out in the bed. Steve gets up momentarily to pull the duvet on top of them, and then he’s on his back and Bucky’s latched to his side, arm around his abdomen, legs intertwined, and head resting on Steve’s chest, breath ghosting at the hollow of Steve’s throat. And Steve’s got one arm curling around Bucky’s shoulder from under him, and he’s got his other hand curled around Bucky’s where metal fingers are resting on top of Steve’s pectoral muscle.

Steve shifts again and uses his right arm to turn off the lamp on his bedside table, and halt the soft ticking of the steel balls in the Newton’s Cradle, and then his fingers are curled around Bucky’s metal ones again. The room is shrouded in darkness, and Bucky can hear the steady beating of Steve’s heart, can feel Steve’s fingers softly tracing up and down his own bare arm under the heavy duvet.

And that’s all it takes for Bucky to finally let go of his paranoia for the night; he’s not the Winter Soldier— not anymore. Because Steve loves him completely and without conditions, and a man like Steve could never love a monster like the Soldier. Steve loves James Barnes, and that’s who _he_ is. He’s James Buchanan Barnes, he’s a war veteran, he’s Captain America’s best friend (and now lover), and he’s a good man. The Winter Soldier is a horrifying ghost from his past, and he’ll listen to the love of his life, and he’ll leave that ghost in the past, where it belongs.

For now, he’ll hold on to this pacifier dream of his, and tomorrow, he’ll go back to Dr. Malik’s clinic, and get the help he so desperately needs. Tonight, he’ll lie right here with his love, and tomorrow, he’ll work himself back to being the man he was, is, and will always be. Tonight, he’ll love Steve Rogers with everything in his being. And tomorrow, he’ll kiss him as if it’s the last, every time.

Because he has the luxury of doing that now: thinking of tomorrow, while he's still in today. Because he has Steve Rogers, who loves him infinitely, right by his side and together, they really can take on the world.


End file.
